Origins
by MitternachtMeinung
Summary: A basic short story of what happened to Mac after season seven.


Part 1

Mac sat in his kitchen in a cloud of gloom, drinking the first beer he'd had in years, a beer he couldn't even taste anymore, and listening to the songs to which he used to sing along, albeit badly. There wasn't a reason anymore. Pete had retired, the Phoenix Foundation had been bought up, and he had been, as they put it, "let go." It might've had to do with the buyers; they were uncomfortable with the idea of anyone with military connections. Hell, he hadn't fired a gun since before he joined Phoenix. What kind of job could he find now? With the economy the way it was, the bachelors' in physics and chemistry wouldn't do much.

A knock on the front door jolted him out of his fugue. For a second, he stayed as he was, immersed in thought, then slowly got up and opened the door.

The man standing on the step outside took an involuntary step back; Mac was unshaven, dirty, and starting to smell. Not exactly what he was looking for. "Angus MacGyver?" The man said, more of a questioning tone in his voice than was normal for these sorts of situations.

"Yup."

"My name is Jim Phelps. I work for…" he paused, then continued. "Let's call it the IMF." Mac stared at him in open shock; the man gently stepped into the former agent's house, tactfully ignoring the mess on the counter from last night's dinner disaster. "I have a mission that's practically designed for you… if you choose to accept it."

Mac continued to stare at him. A mission with the IMF? They were the super elite of their time until they were replaced by the DXS. He had applied there years ago, but the DXS accepted him first, and he never got a letter from the IMF, so he put it out of his mind. He had no idea that they had followed his career at all.

"Wh-why me?" The words emerged as a croak, barely audible. He cleared his throat, then tried again. "Why me? I'm a former agent, emphasis on the former. I'd probably just slow your team down. Besides," he smiled, somewhat sarcastically, "I'm enjoying the down time."

Phelps smiled a little. "You sure? You look bored to me, and we need you." He sighed. "If you accept, please call me." He pressed a little business card into Mac's hand. "If it's any easier, I need your help specifically on this mission. I'm going to be in a sticky situation if you're unavailable. No pressure." And with that, the older man was gone, along with a piece of Mac's conscience.

"Needs me? Why'd anyone need me?" the former agent muttered. "I'm thirty-four, long-haired, bruised, and tired. Haven't fired a gun in six years at least. Seven? Six. Anyway…" he, almost unconsciously, began to strip down for a shower. "Gah. This is gonna irritate me until I agree. He said he needed me in particular…why? Would I work with the IMF team? What all would I be doing? Shooting people? Not an option!" Without noticing, he had fully showered and started to shave, body on the automatic pilot for the moment. "Mac, you're old before your time. Consider all your missions, and think about…God, this is a really bad idea."

And all the same, he called the number.

"I'm in."

Part 2

MacGyver sidled into the living room sheepishly; he was late, he knew that. It wasn't even really his fault, but it takes a while to take out people who are shooting at you without killing them. Thankfully he was only twenty minutes late; perhaps they hadn't progressed too far into the meeting.

Two men and a woman looked up from various seats, but none seemed hostile or irritated. If anything, they had a look of admiration on their faces.

"Congratulations, Mac," Phelps said, as he came out of the kitchen with a snifter. "Never seen anyone try using a clothesline and an umbrella in that manner before."

Mac shrugged. "Use what you got."

"Precisely," a second man's voice replied. A tall, thin man, with a slightly rolled-out look, stood up from the sofa and walked towards him, wincing every other step. He extended a hand generously; Mac took it, feeling slightly off-balance. "Rollin Hand. You'll be doing my job on this mission."

"Which is?"

The woman spoke; her voice was soft, but still very audible. "General impersonation. We know you did some fantastic jobs in the DXS. Your mission in San Rochelle was quite excellent." She stood up, and offered her own petite hand. "Cinnamon Carter."

Mac's eyebrows shot into his hairline. Cinnamon Carter had made headlines as a model about five years ago for a fashion line he couldn't quite remember. At any rate, it had been a smashing success, and Cinnamon had been hounded by the public for the rest of her life. It surprised him, a bit; not the fact that she was involved, per se, but the fact that the media hadn't found it out.

The third man, a handsome African-American, smiled. "Cinnamon, you're intimidating the poor guy." He nodded. "Barney Collier. I'm the technology guy."

"Pleasure," Mac said, dazed. He was in the same room with so many of his dreams; men and women who had saved their country time and again, risking everything every time. At the same time, though, they all seemed disconnected, artificially interacting with one another. "Is there something wrong? You all seem…stretched, or something. And isn't there a fifth man?"

Cinnamon shifted uneasily, and Rollin ran a hand through his hair before speaking softly. "Our fifth member, Willy Armitage, was killed days ago. We haven't had the chance to figure out why, and we didn't want to scare you off either."

Mac nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"We're not used to it, per se, but we know how it is now," Barney offered, with a tight grin that belied the pain Mac could hear in his voice. "And, if we pull this off right, we'll get the bastards who killed him."

The younger agent offered a shy smile for the first time. "Let's get to work then."

Chapter 3

"No, no, no. Not at all." Rollin clapped a hand over his eyes. "Mister MacGyver, you're trying to portray a playboy. You simply look like a…a fop."

Mac grimaced, pulling at his tie. They'd been working on his Italian accent for hours; it was bad enough getting a haircut and wearing a suit, but Rollin insisted on him getting everything perfect to the minute detail. "Rollin, we've got it pretty much—"

"No, we haven't. They will recognize you as an imposter instantly."

Mac's interest in this mission was rapidly running out; perhaps it was expressed in his voice as well as in the muscles of his jaw. "Why's that this time, Rollin?"

"Look at your hand," the older agent offered. Mac opened his hand, turned it this way and that, then looked back at Rollin, puzzled. The IMF man took it and held it squarely in his palms, then pulled the fifth finger out at an angle, exposing a scar that ran from the base of the finger, in between the fourth and fifth, along the side and up to the middle of the nail. Mac yelped, but Rollin was firm. "We must be ever-vigilant. That scar on your finger indicates that you work or have worked with your hands, likely with knives. The man you are portraying has been protected since childhood and has never touched a weapon, as far as we know, besides the occasional hunting trip. You must remember to keep it from sight as much as possible." The older agent's eyes gazed off, remembering missions long past. "If Armitage had the same foresight, he may still have been alive."

The words sobered MacGyver; there was so much to learn, so much to disguise. He grimaced a little as well. He'd always planned on the spot; it had kept him going during the Phoenix years on those tough-and-go, hair-trigger missions that had molded him into the man he was.

However, he was working with a new organization. There was no room for dissent; it was time to move, and put the plan into action.

Chapter 4

The receptionist was working late, on unpaid overtime, but she knew someone had to do it, and the guests couldn't check in by themselves, could they? She sighed, and keyed in another string of numbers into the spreadsheet program.

The front doors hissed open; she jumped a little, then looked slightly ashamed. It was late, after all. Perhaps it was excusable.

She looked up to face the guest. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly. This man was the most handsome she had ever seen. His hair, a light golden brown, peeked out from beneath the brim of a slim-brimmed black fedora; his suit, an immaculate black, fit him perfectly. The black vest and white shirt simply accented the elegant red tie tucked neatly into his suit. His eyes, a clear and steady blue, seemed to look through her and into her mind.

"'Scuse-a me?"

The receptionist started. She had been staring too long. "Er, yes, sir? Do you have a reservation?"

The man smiled; his teeth were an ivory white. "Sure. Room one-thirteen-ah." He gestured to his luggage. "'Sere a…" he seemed lost for the right word.

"Bellboy?"

"Yeah! 'Sere a bell-a-boy to take-a my luggage?"

"No, I'm sorry, there isn't. But I could help, if you like," the receptionist smiled.

The man nodded, obviously pleased. "'Very help-a-ful, Miss…ah…."

"Fen," the lady supplied. "Can I have your name so I can find your room, sir?"

"'Course, miss Fen-ah. M'name's Tony Garibaldi. I'mma businessman."

Behind his hat, suit and accent, MacGyver's thoughts whirled. Why was a girl mixed up with these people? Why would she be the one? He knew that the euphemism "helping with the luggage" was a code word for a drug drop. Of course, she didn't use those exact words, but


End file.
